The wiring of the garden house continues

February 12, 2021 - Friday morning

-2 degrees/cloudy skies/snow flurries

Pentoga Road

Happy birthday to my son, Matt. No doubt there'll be a celebration in New Hampshire this evening as the three munchkins and Jess make this a special day.

Happy birthday, buddy. We love you.

We're experiencing a heatwave this morning. Two below zero is the warmest predawn temperature I've seen in almost a week. Certainly beats the -37 of Thursday morning.

I'm a bit disappointed. The thermometer never dropped to negative forty yesterday morning. Somehow, saying thirty seven below just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Phone conversation with a friend who lives in the south:

"Hey, buddy, how's the temps up there in the UP?"

Yawning and feigning indifference, I answer, "Not bad, dipped down to forty below night before last."

"Oh man, that's brutal. You people are a tough breed."

"Yeah, well, I guess it's from all the bear's milk we drink. Mother Nature's antifreeze. It's just the way we roll during the winter months."

"Wow, I wish I was as hardy as you. Maybe someday when I grow up."

"Keep drinking your bear's milk little buddy and maybe you'll get there."

Meanwhile, back from the mental funny farm.

My Walter Mitty mind was wandering there. It has a tendency to do that occasionally.

Speaking of bear's milk, Grandpa loved to talk to anyone gullible enough to listen to his stories about milking the bears in northern Minnesota. Looking similar to Popeye the Sailer Man, Grandpa had an animated face anyway and never let the truth get in the way of telling a good story.

His favorite tale was when he was milking a bear and in protest, she reared up on her hind legs and faced him in a threatening manner.

As a young boy, completely enthralled and picturing a ten foot bear ready to eat my Grandpa, I asked what he did.

The old man paused, relit his home rolled cigarette, and in a nonchalant voice said, 

"I just showed that big old she bear who was boss. When she opened her mouth to eat me, I stuck my hand clear down her throat, all the way down to her big toe, grabbed hold from the inside, and yanked her inside out.

I taught the big ol' she bear a lesson she never forgot."

I felt sorry for my classmates. They didn't have a grandpa like mine. My grandpa was bigger than life. The old man told stories of fighting Indians alongside Custer, scaling huge mountains, finding gold, catching giant fish, and he'd even survived floods, droughts, and famine. 

His time lines never quite matched up, but that made no difference. To me, his stories made perfect sense.

And in reality, poor Grandpa had a smoker's cough that could wake the dead and fought raging alcoholism. When he wasn't fighting Indians alongside Custer, he was delivering fuel oil around the farming community of Solon, Iowa, until they retired to northern Minnesota.

Did that make a difference to me? Not at all. 

You see, he was my grandpa. 

He was and always will be my hero.

The Walter Mitty gene flows through me quite naturally.

Thursday was a mixed bag of nuts, the largest being the one who took off walking in -35 degree temperatures.

Actually, it wasn't bad. I'm delighted with the three layer system I'm testing for next year's early winter hike on the AT. Separated from the rest of my hand and fingers, both thumbs tend to get a bit chilly, but otherwise, I was comfortable. In fact, I even unzipped the down jacket a few inches to let heat escape while walking up Pentoga hill. 

Sargie and I did our usual run to town, got her Coke, stopped at the grocery store, and enjoyed a short drive. 

Back home, I started the propane heater in the garden house. While walking around the pond, I noticed the pump wasn't running, the one that keeps a small hole open in the ice and allows oxygen in and gasses to escape.

To make a long story short, after much testing, eliminating possible causes, and the mandatory swearing, I discovered the ground fault outlet that supplies power to the garden was bad. There was nothing to do but run a fifty foot extension cord around the side of the house to provide a temporary fix.

I'll replace the outlet next week when temperatures are to rise to near the freezing mark. You read yesterday's story of picking up a wrench barehanded in cold weather? Imagine changing an outside outlet bare handed, trying to manipulate small metal screws, bend wire, etc. etc. No thanks, I'll wait and try not to trip over the extension cord.

I managed to make some progress in the garden house. Wire was run and the light switch was connected.

I'd found a roll of old, but unused, wire in the barn. Only one problem, there was an extra red wire, four in total, when I was used to working with only three.

A quick phone call to Mississippi Brother Garry assured me that if I ever wanted to run 220 volts in the garden house, the wiring would be adequate, but to otherwise clip and ignore it. Worked for me.

Miss Jody has Garry painting two bedrooms in their home. I figured he might need supervising from afar, so it's a good thing I called. After getting my answer about the wire, I assured him he was doing a good job and to continue. 

There's a problem with having to run back and forth to the shop for tools, tape, nuts, and/or ice cream sundaes in this cold weather. Every time I reentered the warm garden house, my glasses fogged over.

Seems I spent more time waiting for those to clear than I actually did working. Holding them over the heater helped to hasten the process.

Speaking of heater, I was working away and noticed I was becoming dizzy and light headed. 

Mama's only son might not be very bright, but he ain't no dummy. 

I quickly opened one window just enough to replenish the oxygen supply and within seconds, my brain was back to making gray matter. 

Well, that may be an exaggeration, but it was doing the best it could with what little it has to work with.

The garden house door was closed later in the afternoon. Half frozen, it was time to head inside.

I crashed in resounding defeat last night while playing Rummy. Sargie Pants drew a few pints of blood, along with no small amount of flesh, while extracting revenge for my rare victory Wednesday afternoon.

I'm still limping this morning and hopefully, no one will notice the bruises where she pummeled me senselessly. 

On a less silly and more sad note, my sister, Barb, called yesterday afternoon saying that Dad's best friend, Mike, had passed away in Florida. The two were almost inseparable during their retirement years and what one didn't think of, the other did. Mom and Mike's wife, Audrey, were the same.

Dad passed away years ago, Mom joined him last year. Now Mike's gone. Only Audrey remains of the fearsome foursome. Those left of the Greatest Generation are becoming few and far between. 

Yooper Brother Mark will be along early this morning for our usual Friday morning stroll. After, I want to shovel the snow from the roof of the garage before heading back to the garden house. 

But first, it's time to lasso and milk a bear so I have something to pour over this morning's Post Toasties. You don't think we northerners survive these frigid temperatures by drinking the same milk as mere mortals, do you?

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

Sargie's son, Shea, does finish work on large yachts at a marine manufacturing facility in Green Bay. The Tampa Bay Buccaneer cheerleaders, above, are standing on one of Shea's finished products. Seems like he could slip one our way, a boat, not a cheerleader. Not sure what I'd do with the later.